Page 60 of The Writer

Declan’s grip tightens on his gun as he steps closer to the bed.

The floor creaks.

Denise Morrow’s eyes flutter open, and she lets out a soft gasp at the sight of him. She sits up, clutching the sheet against her chest. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers.

“You shouldn’t have gone off script,” he tells her, setting his gun on the nightstand.

He sits on the edge of the bed, brushes the hair from her eyes. Declan strokes Denise Morrow’s cheek with his thumb and presses his lips to hers.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

EVEN WITH THE FLASHERS and siren, it’s after eleven by the time Cordova gets back to the city. He doesn’t find Declan at his apartment; he doesn’t find him at his own apartment either. He probably dialed him two dozen times, and every call went straight to voicemail. Aside from a few of the late-shift cops, the station is deserted. None of the cops there have seen Declan.

Cordova grabs a cup of tar-thick coffee from the machine, drops in front of his computer, and checks the carpool logs. Nothing registered to Declan. He doesn’t have a car of his own and hasn’t taken out a PD vehicle in more than three weeks. Cordova minimizes that window, opens another, and logs intoFog Reveal, their mobile phone-tracking software. He keys in Declan’s cell number, waits as the machine chugs away, then swears softly when it comes back withDevice offline.

The coffee tastes like shit, but he needs it. Needs the caffeine. He forces it down and looks up at the crime board.

David Morrow and Mia Gomez silently stare at him. So do Denise Morrow and a handful of others. There are photos of the bodies. Of the various murder weapons. Of the blood smear on the Morrows’ door frame.

Declan’s blood.

Declan is a hothead, always has been, but a murderer?

Cordova just doesn’t see it.

So why is the kid hiding?

Cordova picks up a pencil, taps it on the edge of the desk a few times, then reaches for his phone and dials IT. Despite the late hour, someone answers.

“Barksdale.”

“Hey, it’s Jarod Cordova from Twenty. I need you to do something for me.”

“What’s up?”

“Can you pull the CCTV footage for the Eighty-First Street subway station for the night of Friday the tenth between eight and nine?”

“The station under the museum?” Barksdale goes quiet for a moment. “I didn’t see anything in the papers. Did we lose another—”

Everyone in the department knows that station.

“No, not this time. I think someone might have been scoping it out, though. Can you call me back with what you find?”

“Yeah. Sure.” A slight quiver in his voice.

“Just keep it to yourself, all right? No need to start any rumors.”

“You got it.”

Cordova didn’t want to go there; he knows word will get out now. The blue grapevine is like that. A lot ofYou didn’t hear it from me, but…He has no choice, though. Declan is in deep, and proof of him in that station when both David Morrow and Mia Gomez were killed will keep the bracelets off his wrists. If Declan is in the wind, Cordova can use that footage to stall Daniels until his partner turns up.

If he turns up.

Christ. What if Declan is on the platform at the Eighty-First Street station right now? What if he went there earlier? What if that’s why he isn’t picking up?

He dials the Central Park Precinct and asks when they last patrolled the station.

An hour ago, they say.

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